Just Between Us
by NairobiWonders
Summary: After the occurrences in "Meaningless Incidents," things changed but two unspoken rules remain: 1) Feelings for each other are never verbalized to anyone else; 2) Physical demonstrations of affection in public are forbidden. Semi related collection of stories of Watson & Holmes trying to keep things private. Sheer fluffy joanlock a bit of angst and hurt/comfort. Last chapter is up!
1. Chapter 1

Since that night, the night that started in the hallway, found them the next morning similarly engaged in the kitchen and in truth still continued, their relationship had deepened but not changed. Watson called it becoming intimate. Sherlock called it becoming familiar. Neither called it becoming "romantically involved." Those words had implications of swoons and roses and hyperbole which were not who they were, what they shared or what they wanted. Another layer had been added to their relationship when the physical and verbal manifestations of their emotions were acknowledged, accepted and allowed to become part of their daily existence. They still argued, debated, chided, cherished, worked, lived, loved and breathed as one unit. Partners. Keep your flowery bouquets and fancy dinners, all Watson wanted was a trunk of his cold cases and a fireside breakfast with him. All Sherlock wanted was to be able to be by his partner's side, to teach and be taught, to grow and to share with her.

Within the confines of their home, all freedoms were allowed. Their relationship was private, solely between them. They spoke of their deepened affection to no one and did not display affection in public. For now, this was theirs alone. The few times their relationship stepped out of the private and into the public, it was quickly and discreetly brought back inside before anyone was the wiser. Almost every time...

Coddled

Sherlock and Watson settled into their new-found relationship easily. Watson's bed was their bed, mainly because Sherlock's bed was the couch, the floor, any surface he was near when sleep overtook him. He found sleeping with Joan, just sleeping, eminently pleasurable. Watson also enjoyed having him in her bed, knowing they were safe together. She understood his biorhythms, knew that Sherlock slept as needed and not on any schedule. So that while she may have gone to bed alone, he might be there with her in the morning, or vice versa. Joan loved that, contrary to what you would think about Mr. High Strung Genius, he was a cuddler, a particularly good cuddler, especially after exuberant sex. Sherlock loved how accommodating she was of his comings and goings and tried his best not to disturb her sleep.

This particular morning Watson woke up alone, a little disappointed, she had been in the mood for some "deep under cover, wrap your arms around me" time with Sherlock before the day began. During the work day, they tended to steer clear of physical contact - too distracting. She had a text from him, he had run to the post office and would join her for breakfast. He should be back soon. The shirt he wore the night before was at the foot of the bed. On a whim, Joan picked up his white shirt and put it on and nothing else. His scent enveloped her making her wish all the more he were home. She buttoned the top button as he always did. It made a passable dress she thought as she rolled the cuffs up. Watson heard the front door open and walked out into the hall calling out to him as she headed for the stairs. "Sherlock, you got up too early. I was hoping we could have slept in and cudd..."

Suddenly Sherlock's voice boomed over hers, cutting her off "coddle some eggs? Yes, of course we can still do that." She heard his footsteps bounding up the stairs. Confused by his statement, Joan met him at the top of the stairs. Flustered at the sight of her in his shirt, Sherlock led her back away from the landing, calling down, "We'll be with you in a minute." An indistinct reply came from the foyer.

"You... my um ..." the look of her in his shirt and nothing but his shirt was causing physical reactions in Holmes.

"Who is down there," she asked.

"Oh ... uh ... Alistair. I met him on our stoop. He has something he wishes our .. help ... with." Sherlock was getting distracted looking at the way his shirt clung to parts of Watson as she moved.

"Oh..." The way he was looking at her was making her flush. And then, "Oh!, oh! I need to get dressed... "

"Yes," he said with genuine regret. He quickly pulled her close, slowly ran his hand down the back of his shirt, finding the curve of her bottom and spoke into her ear, "perhaps we can coddle some eggs once he leaves." She could feel him smile into the crook of her neck and she put her arms around his as she melted into him until they heard a noise from downstairs.

Quickly, they pulled away from each other. Watson went off to find suitable attire and Sherlock to tend to their guest.

She came downstairs to find Sherlock and Alistair having tea, engaged in conversation. Alistair stood and greeted her, "Joan, I'm so glad to see you. Coddled egg fan, eh?"

"Uh ... Yes, yes I am." She smiled politely hoping he wouldn't spot the lie. She stood by Sherlock's chair.

"Yes, she loves to line up her toast soldiers and dip..." Sherlock said with too much enthusiasm.

Alistair's face as he looked at both of them told her that he understood a lot more of what just happened than his polite British manner would allow him to comment on, other than to say, "I'm glad you two found each other."

Alistair's ease put them at ease and allowed them for a brief moment to let their guard down. Joan sat on the armrest of Sherlock's chair and put her hand on his back. Sherlock, looking very pleased, asked, "So Alistair, what can we do for you?"

Legal

Bell and Gregson, seated in the waiting room, braced themselves as they saw Sherlock rushing up to the glass doors of the ER. He had not taken the news well. Holmes burst in. "Where is she?" he asked loudly, panic bubbling just below the surface of his voice, afraid of the answer he might receive.

"They're examining her right now. She was conscious when we brought her in." Bell purposefully kept his tone calm. He had had the unfortunate task of calling to tell Sherlock that Joan had been shot. It appeared to be a random drive-by shooting. A full scale investigation was under way.

Sherlock tried to get past Gregson who stood up to make sure things stayed under control. "I need to see her," Holmes bounced and peered around the Captain at the ER main desk trying to find some one in authority.

Gregson stopped him, "You can't go back there right now. What part of "they are examining her" don't you get. It's family only. We're trying to contact her mother..."

Holmes made an exasperated noise, and scrunched his face as if in pain, "Her mother is cruising the Danube at this moment and Oren is also out of the country on business of some sort." Sherlock tried to get past Gregson again. He got louder, "I need to be with her now." Gregson stared at him, crossed his arms and did not budge. Holmes walked back away from the Captain, paced a bit, trying to find a nurse or a doctor he could talk to, getting more frustrated as the seconds wore on and he was no closer to his goal.

Finally Sherlock snapped and blurted out, "She's my partner, life partner, domestic partner, psuedo-wife whatever the hell you want to call it! I have every right to be in there with her." Gregson stared at Holmes like he had finally lost his grasp on reality. The Captain shook his head at Bell and Bell rolled his eyes at Gregson. Holmes took the opportunity to maneuver around both of them and get the attention of the nurse who had just showed up behind the counter.

"Holmes, come on, I realize you're upset, and you want to be in there with Joan but lying isn't going to help anything."

Sherlock fished a folded and tattered paper from his inner jacket pocket. He steadied his tone and attempted to exude rationality while speaking to the nurse. "Joan Watson and I are legal domestic partners." He plunked down and splayed out the certificate on the counter. "Technically I'm not her husband per se, but I have rights, including being with her in there at this very moment ..." He pushed the certificate towards the nurse, he added, "I also have her health care power of attorney, same as she has mine. May I go in now, please?" He was trying to remember all that Joan had told him about courtesy greasing the wheel. The nurse handed the papers over to another and they reviewed them. He was vibrating trying to keep himself under control, until with a twitch of the shoulders he blew up.

"NOW, DAMN IT!" He pounded the desk. They all jumped and stared at him. Bell shot a hand to his shoulder just to keep him from doing something he'd regret. The nurse scurried away, papers in hand.

He stood in front of the double doors, wiped his face with both hands trying to subdue the fear that was beginning to overwhelm him.

Gregson looked at Bell and rationalized quietly, "For practical purposes, for situations like this, it makes perfect sense to become legal domestic partners. On paper they qualify. Joan must have done this for his sake."

Sherlock turned to stare at both men in disbelief, flatly he responded to them "Yes. That must be it ..."

The nurse re entering the ER grabbed his attention, "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson is demanding you be brought to her immediately."

Sherlock exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and murmured softly to himself, "That's my girl." He was ushered into a small examination room where Joan lay on a gurney, flat on her stomach. A spotlight shown on her exposed back. Sherlock almost had to look away in revulsion - a gaping bullet wound marred his partner's back. The doctor addressed him, informing him Watson had requested a local anesthesia which they were administering before they tended to the injury itself.

Groggy and in severe pain, she opened her eyes and tried to focus on the figure in the doorway.

"Hey" she said softly. "Bullet wound to the back. Almost exactly like yours." She tried to sound matter of fact, calm, so that he wouldn't worry about her but he could hear the pain in her voice.

He was shaking like a leaf when he went over to her and tried to calm himself and her with a kiss to her head as his fingers smoothed her hair. Holmes knelt so that his head was at the same level as hers.

"Hey," he said back to her. He looked into her dark pained eyes, and could think of nothing else to say to her except the words he had long refused to utter. He leaned in so that she would be the only one to hear them. "I love you" the words were breathed more so than said. She felt each word caress her face. Tears fell from her eyes. He kissed her wet eyes and leaned his head gently on hers. "I'm here. It'll be alright, luv. It'll be alright."

Gregson approached the ER nurse as she came out to the desk. "Any word on Joan Watson's condition?"

"They are suturing her wound at the moment. She's as well as can be expected. Her partner is with her."

Gregson spoke sarcastically to Bell, "I'm sure that's a big help." Bell shook his head.

The nurse looked at them, "I don't know but I think having someone there to hold your head and kiss away your tears can't be all that bad."

Both men looked at her stunned. Bell spoke up as they walked away, "She must be confused."


	2. Chapter 2

Good-bye

"Sherlock... Where were you going?" She whispered as she caressed his hair, his cheek pressed to her breast, his breathing deep and relaxed. They had ended up under one of the computer tables across from the media room, cables and power strips lay around them.

"Mmmmm," was his initial answer as he moved his head to bestow one more kiss to her breast. He languidly raised his head to look at Joan, her dark hair twisted and tangled around her much as the cords. "Grocers ... out of butter ... baking ... " his words were said between small kisses and he nestled down once more. Watson smiled, "Okay." And she held him a little tighter.

Sherlock and Watson had had one too many encounters with death and brutality over the past year. As a coping mechanism, they developed a ritual - not consciously - it was something that came to be on its own. Any time they separated, went off on solo ventures, went down to the bodega for milk, whatever the reason, a small kiss, a peck really, was exchanged between them. Nothing passionate or ornate, just a kiss on the cheek or lips that said 'should I not return, know that I loved you.' It was a confirmation of affection. No thought was given, it just was. The leaving party initiated the peck. The kiss, however fleeting it might seem, to them was a concrete affirmation of their bond.

When in the company of others, obviously a kiss would not be acceptable, so they developed a shorthand. They would lock eyes, he would slightly raise his eyebrows, she would slightly nod. Not as satisfying as a kiss but it served its purpose.

Their reactions were Pavlovian. Hear your partner say good bye and heads would bend and raise to meet the others lips. Only once since the ritual began had it not been immediately observed. Sherlock and Watson had gotten into a very loud and heated argument relating to a case. Words were exchanged, anger boiled over on both sides and Sherlock stormed out of the brownstone. Watson angrily sat down at the computer. Seconds later the door opened and Holmes quickly walked back in, went over to Watson, put his hand on her stunned face lifting it up to face him and gave her a tender kiss on the lips. He said nothing else and stormed back out of the house.

On occasion, like the one today, the good bye kiss led to them not saying good bye at all. Desire sometimes only needed the smallest of sparks to be set off and they would find themselves half dressed throughout the brownstone and one night on the roof.

The television sets still talked to themselves in the other room as Sherlock stirred, "Ms. Hudson should be arriving shortly. I am quite certain that she would prefer not to catch a glimpse of my lily white ass." Watson laughed softly, gave him one more kiss and released him from her arms.

In actuality, Ms. Hudson had already gotten her glimpse of the Holmes/Watson anatomy. Arriving early, she had knocked, and when no one answered the door, she let herself in as per usual. On entering, she heard the noisy chatter of the televisions on the third floor and went up to turn them off. Sherlock and Joan, being rather passionately focused on each other, were oblivious to her arrival at the threshold. On seeing them thus engaged, Ms. Hudson's first thought was, "Thank god, it's about time!" She grinned with happiness for her friends and quietly turned and went downstairs. The kitchen always needed the most attention anyway.

Christmas

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me? There's always room at my family's house."

"No Watson, thank you. As I've told you before, I have no sentiment attached to the season," Sherlock politely intoned as they stood in the foyer. Watson dressed in her warmest jacket, scarf around her neck, held an overnight bag by her side.

"I don't like the thought of you alone during Christmas." She searched his eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of his true feelings.

Holmes responded cheerily, "But that is my most cherished holiday tradition. I have always spent Christmas alone. Even as a child, the holidays only precipitated feelings of dread and fear for me. Mercifully most of my tormentors went home for the holidays. You should know by now that camaraderie, especially the false seasonal variety, is not anything I relish.

She looked at him with sadness imagining the small child, ignored and alone, while the rest of the world celebrated. Sherlock sensed the Dickensian childhood she envisioned him having and dramatically added, "Perhaps I will treat myself to a bowl of thin gruel for breakfast tomorrow." He smiled and Watson hit him on the arm, "Stop it!"

"Come Watson, be off to the bosom of your family. I shall be equally content here on my own. A good book, a warm fire and a hot cup of tea, a perfect celebration for me. I'll await your return tomorrow evening." He pulled the zipper of her jacket a little higher, fixed her scarf and stepped back.

"Bye then," she said, stepped forward and gave him a long, luxurious good bye kiss. He pushed away from her, "Stop or I won't be able to let you go." Sherlock opened the door for her and watched her enter the taxi.

At three in the morning, she quietly opened the door. The house was dark except for the small glow from the fireplace in the adjacent room. Watson put down her bag and went in to find Sherlock asleep on the couch. On closer inspection, she realized he was holding her red sweater in his arms much like a child with a security blanket. He wasn't expecting her back this early.

Joan grabbed the blanket that had slipped off him and covered his shoulders. Sherlock woke with a start. "It's me, it's me," Joan quickly reassured him.

He propped himself up, "What time is it? Is everything alright?" He tried to rub the confusion off his face.

"Everything's okay. I just missed you and decided to come back early," she sat on the edge of the couch.

"I'm fine Watson. You should have stayed with your family," he chided.

"You are my family." Her voice was quiet. In the shadowy light they stared at one another.

He lay back on the couch and picked up the blanket inviting her to join him. She took the place of the red sweater that was at his side. They adjusted until spooning perfection was achieved and both promptly fell asleep.

A phone was ringing. Without opening her eyes, her hand searched around until she found it. Watson opened her eyes long enough to see the light of dawn filtering through the dirty windows and to slide her finger on the phone to answer. "Hello." She mumbled still half asleep. A male voice spoke, "Joan? Is Sherlock there?"

Watson carefully turned to face him, the sofa was rather narrow. "Sherlock, wake up, it's for you." He refused to open his eyes. "Hey, hey... " she got up close to his face. "Wake up, I think it's the captain." Gregson patiently waited at the other end of the line trying to figure out what was going on ...

"Captain, how can I be of service?" Holmes sleepily mumbled into the phone.

"I'm sorry to get you two up this early on Christmas morning, but we've got a rather odd crime scene and would like your help."

"Certainly," Holmes perked up at the possibility of a puzzle to solve. This Christmas might not be so bad after all. "I'm not sure Watson is up for it..."

"No, no I'm awake. Whatever it is I'm up for it." She said into his chest as Holmes smiled at her.

"Text me the address, we'll get dressed and be there as soon as we can."

Gregson stood with his phone to his ear trying to decide if Sherlock had just admitted he and Joan slept together. He shook his head and realized he had more important things too worry about. "Alright, will do."


	3. Chapter 3

Conflict

The police station was relatively quiet for a Monday afternoon. Watson and Holmes were there to review a file before inspecting the apartment where the murder had been committed. Sherlock sat at the desk across from Bell attempting with little success to glean any new information from the pages before him. His eyes kept straying from the file and landing on his partner. An amused Marcus sat and observed Holmes as he watched Watson, or more accurately stated, as he tried to not watch Watson. Sherlock would scan a page and glance up, he'd scan the next page and glance up again, his brows becoming more and more knitted with each furtive look. Interesting, thought Bell, this might prove entertaining.

Sherlock for his part was highly displeased. Watson had stepped away to get coffee and ended up engaged in quiet conversation with Officer Studly-Do-Right. This had been going on for the past seven minutes and forty-one seconds. He was irritated, from a professional standpoint, of course. She was here to work, not socialize. Why was she talking to him? What were they talking about? This was not acceptable.

"Who is that?" Holmes asked Bell, pointing with his chin at the offending party.

Bell casually looked up and took his time answering, "You mean the tall, muscular officer talking to Joan?" Holmes narrowed his eyes at Bell and nodded. "That's Officer Broderick. Great guy, recently picked up a commendation for..."

Holmes stopped listening, abruptly stood up and walked towards Watson. He needed no further information from the file or from the detective.

"Watson!" his authoritative enunciation of her name was aimed at wresting her attention away from Officer Muscles.

Joan slowly looked at her partner and then turned her attention back to Officer Broderick, "I'm sorry, Stan. Can you give me a second." She directed a cool glaze towards Sherlock. She was not pleased with his tone.

"We need to go. I've reviewed the file. We can do no more here." His imperious manner further irritated her. Joan stared at him. This was not the reaction he was expecting.

Finally she spoke, her voice cold and aloof, "I'm consulting on a personal matter with Officer Broderick. If you need to leave, by all means go. I'll catch up with you when I can."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare. He was shocked. Watson was upset with him? Why? She was his. His partner. She went where he went. He brought his own rising anger under control. "May I speak with you in private for a moment?" he asked with forced politeness. Watson considered the request, excused herself and followed Sherlock into an empty interrogation room.

Once inside the room, Sherlock found himself at a loss. Watson stood by the door, an impassive look on her face. He had no words that he cared to use to explain himself and no apology was forthcoming from her. He stepped forward, staring into her eyes for a clue as to where to begin. Watson recognized the look on his face - wide eyed, mouth slightly opened, eyes that darted away from hers when too much contact was made. He was trying to process new tangles of emotions, feelings he didn't know how to deal with. She softened as she began to understand the reason for his behavior.

Sherlock struggled with how to explain, found no answers and opted to simply say, "Bye." As per their habit, she lifted her chin waiting for the cursory kiss she knew would follow. He bent down and finally found a way to express himself to her. He kissed her slowly, one hand coming up to hold her face, while the other threaded through her hair. The kiss was tender and tentative at first but grew deep and passionate as she responded. Her eyes were closed as he pulled away, and he couldn't help but go back for another light tug on her lower lip. Joan, slightly breathless from the surprise of it all, opened her eyes, and reached to touch his lips, gently wiping away traces of her lipstick.

"If that was the result of jealousy, I should make you jealous more often," she whispered.

"Jealousy is for the petty and insecure. I am not jealous." He drawled and placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. Sherlock moved away from her and reached to open the door. "Are you coming with me?" he said thinking the matter had been resolved.

"No, I am not," she said. Sherlock stopped in the open doorway and looked back at Watson. Joan lowered her voice and continued, "You do realize you have no reason to be jealous."

"I am not jealous. You may do as you please," he said dismissively, punctuating each word with a bob of his head. He turned to find he was being observed.

With his mouth shut in a straight lined smile, Bell crinkled his nose and shook his head, "Dude..." was all he said, leaving Sherlock perplexed as to the meaning behind the singular word. Watson walked silently past him on her way back to Stan. Sherlock, having reached his saturation point for incomprehensible social situations, sullenly grabbed the file from the desk, pivoted on his heel and left.

Bell went off to see if he could change his bet in the office pool.

- . - . - . -

Resolution

It was after five when Joan got back to the brownstone. As she hung up her coat she called out, "Sherlock, I'm home." She turned to find him sitting in his chair, a small fire crackling in the fireplace. He was silent as she approached him.

"Hey. Have you eaten?" He shook his head no. "I'll order us something, what would you like?"

"Before you do that, I think we need to talk," his voice was soft but serious. Sherlock never wanted to talk unless it was about a case. This did not sound like a case. This sounded like a continuation of this afternoon's events.

"Sure." She pulled up the ottoman and sat in front of the fire.

"Our relationship has changed from its initial configuration of business partners and flat mates, would you agree?" She nodded. "A new level of ... familiarity has been added rather organically, without discussion. And I would like to make sure we are in agreement of its terms."

His formal, impersonal manner upset her. "Sherlock, what are you trying to say?"

"This afternoon's events have left me to consider whether our arrangement as it now stands is suitable..."

"I think you're confused ... or wait, ... are you saying you're unhappy with our relationship ..." She spoke quickly and just as quickly he spoke over her trying to stop her coming to the wrong conclusions.

"Watson, Watson, stop! Your assumption as to my intent is incorrect. Most days you're the only ... " He stopped and took a breath leaving the sentence unfinished as he tried to collect himself. "I wonder whether our arrangement is too restrictive. I believe we are sufficiently secure in our feelings for each other that we needn't be monogamous." He blurted out the words he had so carefully rehearsed.

Watson looked at him in utter disbelief, "What?"

"You obviously were attracted to that, that ... Stan today. And you should not have to inhibit your urges. I'm suggesting a more open association where we would both be free to express our physical desires with others should we so choose without threatening the basis of our relationship."

Joan suddenly stood up. "Is that what you want?"

"If it betters the health of our ..." He never got a chance to finish.

"That's it Holmes! Stop talking." She paced in front of him before turning back to him and continuing. "You have a huge blind spot when it comes to reading me Sherlock. Huge! ..." She took a beat. "Stan is gay. He knew that you and I are legal domestic partners and was asking my advice as to how to proceed. The department is not aware of his partner yet, hence the 'intimate' quality of our conversation."

Sherlock sat stunned that he had not picked up on any of the information she just shared. "Oh," was all he managed to say.

She walked over to where he was sitting, stood between his legs and stared down at him. She spoke with controlled anger, "If you think that I would want some sort of open, polyamorous relationship, you are out of your mind ... Is that what you want?" He stared up at her not risking to say a word.

Joan knelt so she could look him straight in the eye. She was angry, still between his legs and the vulnerability of his position was not lost on Sherlock. She studied his face as she arranged her thoughts. When she spoke her words were soft but strong. "Perhaps you're right. We need to make the terms of this arrangement of ours clear..." She looked away for a second only to turn back towards him and lean closer, supporting herself on the arms of his chair, "You are my world. I will walk by your side. I will support you, carry you if I have to, until the last breath leaves my body. But understand that just as I am completely yours, I need to know you are completely mine. And if you should break my trust, no matter what the circumstance, I will leave you, the brownstone, the partnership. Understood?"

Emotion welled in Sherlock. He was relieved, overwhelmed with feelings he again had no words for. When he spoke, his voice was a rough whisper, "You know me, all the dark patches, cracks and horrors of my being, and you still claim me as yours?"

She nodded her head, "I do."

He cupped her face gently, "Then I take you and only you Joan Watson as mine until I breathe my last." They exchanged a chaste kiss, pausing to look into each others tear-misted eyes. Joan lightly touched his hand as it held her face. She climbed into the chair with him, half sitting on him, her arms encircling his waist. He wrapped himself tightly around her as well trying to hold the moment before it passed.

After a while, Sherlock took a breath and half smile crooked his mouth, "Contrary to all my beliefs on the subject, I think we just exchanged what could be considered matrimonial vows." She looked up at him. "Shall we consummate our vows?" he asked suggestively.

Joan leaned in and whispered, "How about we have dinner first? I'm starving." She stood up and extended him her hand. He took it and as he stood, he shook his head and teased, "See, not married more than two minutes and sex is off the agenda."

"I don't know," she said as they walked towards the door, "I don't think that eating and sex are two mutually exclusive activities."

He threw her a sidelong look, "Hmm, the patrons at the restaurant might have a different opinion about that."

She laughed. As he helped her on with her coat, he held on to her shoulders a little more than needed. Joan turned and they hugged briefly before heading out the door together into the cold Brooklyn air.


	4. Chapter 4

The siren's call of the Museum of Natural History's current exhibit, "The Power of Poison," was too much for Sherlock to resist. The curator of the exhibit, a consultant of Sherlock's on many a case, gave them a personalized tour. Sherlock and Watson spent the morning perusing the displays, discussing theories on the evolution of poisons and exploring the medicinal as well as lethal applications of a variety of natural toxins. Joan, as a former doctor and now investigator, was fascinated by the exhibit. Also fascinating was observing Sherlock - he was exceptionally well versed on the subject and treated as a peer by the experts with whom they spoke. Lunch was enjoyed in the staff cafeteria followed by a tour of the Museum's imaging lab. It was around two in the afternoon when they stepped out into the warm sunshine. A wave of springlike weather had lifted the blanket of grey that hung over the city the previous weeks. One breath of the warm air and Joan suggested they cut through Central Park to Fifth and enjoy the change while it lasted. Sherlock, having been set in a good mood by his wallow through the halls of poison, readily agreed.

Throughout the park, like-minded New Yorkers staked their claims: children blew bubbles, chased balls, ran, all under the careful watch of their mommies and nannies; young lovers laid out blankets and enjoyed each others company while others read, slept or conversed. All had the same purpose in mind - to soak up some much needed sunshine and counteract the dreariness of the fading winter.

"Why don't we sit out here and read," Joan suggested.

His response, "What?"

They had purchased journals and books at the exhibit. "We're going to end up sitting inside and reading these when we get home. Why not sit out here and read?"

He couldn't argue, it did feel good to be out without scarves and gloves and coats. Frankly even his suit jacket felt like too much at the moment. "Excellent idea Watson. We are both most likely in need of vitamin D, sun exposure will be beneficial."

She was surprised he didn't offer an argument. What he did offer was a five minute analysis of where the best location to have their lay-about might be - away from running, crying children, a safe distance from the disk throwers and kite flyers, an area of quiet but not too close to those engaged in amorous activities...

Finally, Joan said, "Here. We are staying here." A small rocky outcrop would be perfect for her to rest against. She put down her bags.

Sherlock, grudgingly agreed, "Alright, I suppose this will do." He took off his jacket and laid it down at the base of the rock for her to sit on. "Your skirt is short and uh .. I think you'll be more ... comfortable uhm ..." He stammered and motioned with his hand awkwardly. He didn't want her to think he was be treating her like a helpless female, it just was a practical choice. She looked at him and smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. Joan sat, extending her legs out in front of her. Sherlock sat cross legged next to her unbuttoning his top shirt button and reaching for one of the books they had purchased. He laid back on an elbow, trying to find a comfortable position to read.

Watson looked over at him and patted her lap. He stared blankly at her. "You loaned me your jacket, I'll loan you my lap," she tilted her head as she spoke.

Sherlock looked around guiltily, making sure no one was watching. "It's okay Sherlock," she reassured him. He accepted her offer and laid his head on her lap gingerly at first, but then twitched around until he got comfortable. She smiled, and continued reading.

He unbuttoned his shirt. "Might as well try to get as much solar exposure as we can." The sun felt glorious.

They lay there reading. Blissfully at peace and content. Her hand came to rest on his chest, fingertips absentmindedly playing as she read. Watson had never admitted it to him but she loved his body almost as much as she loved his mind, muscular yet lean, tattooed and hairy...

"Watson," his voice was soft as he looked up at her, "if you are going to keep touching me in that manner, I will never be able to finish reading this sentence." Emboldened by the anonymity of being part of a crowd, he allowed himself the pleasure of a public display of affection. Sherlock took her hand and kissed her open palm. She felt the repercussions all the way down to her toes. He brought her hand back down and placed it on his chest as he craned his neck upward. Watson bent her head and kissed his lips lightly. He brought his hand to her face and caressed her cheek. Her legs raised slightly to bring his head closer to hers. He pushed her hair behind her ear and returned her kiss threefold. They pulled away from each other slowly, the excitement of sharing their affection out in the open shone in their eyes.

"Joan? Sherlock? Fancy meeting you here." Mrs. Gregson and her daughter approached.

Watson sat up quickly, "Mrs. Gregson, how are you?

Sherlock instantaneously disentangled himself from Watson, and stood with his back to Mrs. Gregson offering Watson his hand to help her up. "Damn it, I knew we should have sat further away from the path," he said under his breath as he reached to close his shirt.

"Oh no, no, don't get up ..." Mrs. Gregson entreated. "We just saw you there ..."

Joan had already taken the few steps it took reach them. "Small world! Is this your daughter?"

"This is our youngest, Carly." Pleasantries were exchanged as Sherlock stood uncomfortably by Watson.

"Well, we should get going, we didn't mean to bother ..." She started to say.

Sherlock interrupted, "No, no bother at all. We are just doing a bit of undercover surveillance, you just added to our cover." He grimaced a smile. Joan noticed the doubting look in Mrs. G's eyes.

"Okay then, back to work for you. I'll make sure to tell Tommy we ran into you." And with that they were off, leaving Sherlock and Watson to wonder how much damage control they would need to do to keep the status quo.

Making their way back to the path, Mrs. Gregson turned to her daughter and smirked, "Hah, surveillance, right! Sherlock is nicely built tho' don't you think?" Carly giggled at her mom as she put on her sunglasses.

Later on when told of the run in, Captain Gregson's only comment was, "If they said they were doing surveillance work, that's what they were doing. Those two are very dedicated to their work." Cheryl Gregson rolled her eyes at her husband and didn't bother to argue the point. "Yes, I could tell they were very dedicated."


	5. Chapter 5

She opened the door and stood at the threshold, steeling herself to face the icy emptiness of the brownstone. Sherlock had been missing for almost three days now and each time she returned home an ever smaller part of her that hoped he'd be there waiting was crushed. This time the crushing of that last small hope was too much for her to bear. She sat at the foot of the stairs. Tears streamed, the leaden lump of sorrow she had carried in her throat since that first day finally burst and uncontrolled sobs of pain erupted from her. Alone, she was able to let go of the iron will that kept her strong in front of others. Her world became gelatin - no structure or person strong enough for her to lean on existed. She had failed him, he was out there hurt, bleeding, dead and she could not find him.

Joan gasped for air. She couldn't breathe. As empty as their home was, it was suffocating her. Through the watery haze of uncontrolled tears, she found her way up the stairs to the roof. Finding her place in front of the hives, she sought comfort in the weak afternoon sun and the humming of the bees. She swiped at her face, embarrassed by her weakness, by her need for him. But the tears as soon as removed, replenished themselves and fell once more clouding her view, sending her spiraling...

... Three days prior ...

The last time they spoke they argued. He stated he thought her deductions less than factually rigorous, bordering on the intuitive. She argued her case once more to him, finally calling him an analytical zealot and announcing she was off to bed. Before she had a chance to leave the room, he stopped her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Confused, Joan gave Sherlock a quick kiss back, and went upstairs. He never came to bed. In retrospect, she should have realized he was up to something.

She woke up to silence. An unnatural quiet. Nothing creaked, nothing moved. Even at his most considerate, she knew when Sherlock was in the house. Watson turned over and immediately covered her eyes - too much light. She grabbed for her phone, checked the time and messages - none from Sherlock. Something felt wrong. The whispers of vague anxiety came uninvited. "Stop it. You're feeling rather than observing," she told herself. Watson shook her head at the decidedly stiff-upper-lip accent in which the thought presented itself.

Grabbing for the comfort of her red sweater, she made her way down to the kitchen, calling out his name several times as she descended. The kitchen table caught her attention. His phone and a note lay waiting for her.

Vague anxiety became more distinct. Sherlock didn't step into the bathroom without taking his phone. She opened the folded paper: "It is 4:00 a.m., did not wish to wake you. Something of urgency has arisen that needs my immediate attention. I leave you my phone as I do not wish to have my whereabouts traced. This is something I must do alone. Please do not worry. I am in no danger. I will explain all to you upon my return this afternoon." Watson grabbed his phone and scrolled through his incoming and outgoing calls and texts. They had all been cleared. His internet usage as well - cookies, history - deleted. She found his tablet - cookies, data, recent documents - all cleared.

Was this one of his tests? And if not, then perhaps a misguided effort to protect her?

She was able to pull some information from his laptop and cellphone account. The rest of that day was spent in chasing down false leads, investigating empty apartment buildings and talking to anyone who might have seen him. Watson carried Sherlock's phone with her at all times as if it were a holy relic that would somehow connect her with him. It was nearly five when Watson made her way back to the brownstone, defeated. The cold feeling that permeated the house crept its way into her being. If this was a test, she clearly had failed.

Watson made a large pot of tea, lit a fire and set herself to wait, hoping he would turn up. In the quiet emptiness of the hours that followed, Watson concentrated on the facts, created a wall of crazy that even Sherlock would be proud of and did not allow her emotions to enter into the equation. By 9:00 p.m. she could wait no longer. There was no sign of him. Watson called Captain Gregson and told him of her suspicions, gave him all the information she had. A missing person report could not be issued yet, but they would start the investigation and extra eyes would be out there looking for him.

After that call, her world became a blur: scrutinizing every scrap of information, chasing down every possible connection to him. Subsisting on tea, peanut butter sandwiches, and very little sleep, Watson exhausted every resource at her disposal but got no closer to finding Sherlock.

Fear, anger, hurt took turns swelling in her chest and rising to her throat as she walked into the empty brownstone on the second night. She swallowed them all down as best she could. Liam had disappeared like this on more than one occasion, but though she had worried about him, it had never been this visceral a fear, this all consuming sorrow. The panic of having failed Sherlock overcame her again in the small hours of the night. Watson wandered in the dark from room to room trying to find comfort, a place to rest, finally returning to the room in which she and Sherlock met. She turned on all the TV sets and let the noise wash over her until her mind was numbed.

This morning, after an uncharacteristic outburst, Joan had been asked by Gregson to leave the station, go home and get some rest for everyone's sake. He promised to contact her with any breaks. Joan couldn't rest, she continued the search on her own. Images of him dead in a garbage strewn alley or of his bloated body washing up to shore kept forcing themselves upon her as she tried to work. The only conclusion she reached was he left of his own accord, he did not want to be found and obviously something had gone horribly wrong. Watson felt completely lost, alone and adrift ...

. . .

The bees were beginning to settle in the hives as the late afternoon's long shadows were creeping across the rooftop. The chime of a text startled Joan. It came from his phone: "Watson I'm alright." That was all it said. She jumped up, her heart pounded, her breathing quickened. Her own phone rang. Bell. They had him. He was alright! She thanked Bell profusely as she ran down stairs and out of the house.

The empty lot where Sherlock had been found was now overrun with emergency vehicles. Joan searched the crowd of police officers and other first responders but didn't see him. Out of nowhere, Capt. Gregson appeared in front of her.

"He's alright Joan. He has a gash on his head, bumps and bruises. He looks much worse than he is."

"Where is he?" she scanned around Gregson trying to get by him.

"Why don't you let the paramedics clean him up before ..."

Joan lost it, "Tommy Gregson if you don't step out of my way, so help me I'll ..."

He stopped her, "May I remind you you are threatening a captain with the NYPD ..." Gregson saw the desperation in her eyes and caved in. He took her by the elbow and lead her to Sherlock.

She saw him ahead of her sitting on a gurney. Half his face was covered in blood as was his shirt. He looked pale and exhausted. The EMTs around him were cleaning away the blood that caked the side of his head so they could examine the wound. Sherlock saw Joan, perked up and smiled a closed lipped smile "Watson!" he said cheerily.

Relieved, angered, on the verge of tears that she refused to let drop, she walked determinedly toward him. "You fucking asshole!" she yelled at him. The EMTs stopped their work and let her through without being asked. She was a force of nature at this point.

Sherlock's smile quickly faded, "Watson I can explain..." She had reached the gurney where he sat and started her examination of the man. Joan was cold and clinical, her ER training rushing back. The gash on his head required stitching but was not bad. Head wounds tend to bleed. Bruising, scrapes... her eyes began filling with tears again. She was in his face, checking him for shock.

Sherlock whispered "Good god woman, you look worse than I do," as he saw the pain and fatigue that registered on Watson's face. Watson lost control, a sob escaped her lips as tears began to slip. "No, no, Watson, its alright, really, I'm sorry, please don't ..." He knew Watson never cried in public. Ever. It was painful to watch. She grabbed at him not caring if she was hurting him or not at this point and he responded by clasping her to him as if some one might try to take her away. She sobbed into his neck and swore at him until she caught her breath. Joan found his mouth and kissed him, anger and passion mixing. He responded, holding the back of her head, pressing her lips even harder into his. As they stopped to catch their breath, she hissed at him "Don't you ever, ever do this again." He looked at her wide-eyed, "I won't, I swear." She held his face tenderly, "As soon as you've recovered, I'm going to make your life a living hell." He looked deep into her eyes, and said with a glint of mock anticipation "Promise?" She laughed softly as their foreheads met. His dried blood, moistened by her tears, was now spread on both their cheeks as they held on to each other once more.

Around them in stunned silence stood NYC's finest. Bell looked at Gregson and raised his eyebrows. Gregson shook his head and reached for his wallet, handing Marcus a crisp twenty dollar bill. "Best money I ever lost," he said with a lopsided smile.

The EMTs finally broke in and asked Watson to step aside. They needed to get him to the hospital. "I'll ride with him," she said. They didn't argue..

At the hospital, they checked him into an ER room to wait for the wound on his head to be cleaned and stitched. She pulled over a chair and sat as close as she could to him, resting her arm on his bed protectively close to him. She needed answers. Sherlock told her that Alistair had come to him for help. "Domestic squabbles are the worst," he said, "especially when your ex is a jealous testosterone laden footballer." Alistair had recruited Sherlock to go with him to return his ex's belongings. The man became upset, thinking Sherlock was the new man in Alistair's life. Things got messy. He kept them sequestered until Sherlock tried to break free and got hurt. "They're both alright. They talked it out. I'm the one that got the worst of it. By the way, you can't mention this to Alistair. He was adamant about no one else knowing, especially you ... Made me leave my phone against my better judgment." His eyes were closing. "He is old fashioned, not out yet ... I've talked to him about it ..." He fell asleep in mid sentence. Concussion had been ruled out. Joan let him drift off to sleep.

Further questions would have to wait. The adrenalin rush of having him back had drained the little energy Joan had left. She lay her head down close to his.

She realized they had "outed" themselves in front of the whole NYPD ... "Woman." He had never called her that in public, only in moments of intimacy or personal conversation. Joan had challenged him out on the term the first time he used it, telling him it was overbearing, reducing her to an object, never mind the Irene overtones. He explained himself so eloquently, she had melted into his arms. It was his acknowledgement that Watson was his only one, not an ideal, not "the woman" but that she was his woman - his flesh and blood counterpart. His other half as man - the half that completed him, that made him whole, that made him better...

Sleep was overtaking her, half thoughts and odd images flitting through her semi conscious state ... wondering if it was legal to GPS chip a human being ... What would her mom say if she saw them like this, tear-stained, bloodied ... Clyde! when was the last time she fed Clyde ...

Gregson came into the ER room to check on them and found them sound asleep. Joan was snoring inches away from Holmes' face, hair falling in all directions, hand on his face. Holmes, for his part, was sleeping open-mouthed, slightly drooling, his hand on Watson's wrist. The Captain's first thought frankly was, "yuck." They were a mess. Then he smiled. "Partners" he thought and sighed. He needed to call Cheryl. They needed to get back to being partners.


End file.
